


Baby Boy

by KuriTheDweeb



Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, Gen, Team Dynamics, red team - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-07-10 14:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriTheDweeb/pseuds/KuriTheDweeb
Summary: Pete grabbed Wade by his hood and dragged him out of the building, kicking and screaming.Weasel hoped Pete never came back.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't out of the ordinary for people to come to Sister Margaret's looking for Deadpool. They hear he's the best around, think they can afford him, and come looking for him. Happens all the time, two or three times a week at the very least. Kids came sometimes, desperate little ones who's little money Wade refused.

Sometimes people came along asking for a Mr. Wilson. That raised a few eyebrows, and Weasel would discreetly ask questions and coax answers before he would even consider passing Wade a gold card.

And then there was this.

A pale, skinny boy who couldn't possibly be older than fourteen stormed into the bar, pissed to hell and back. Surprised men let him shove past them. He stomped over to the bar, slamming a hand down on the wood.

"Tell me where Wade is," the kid demands with a growl, "now."

"Who?" Weasel asks, polishing a glass that like it's siblings would never be truly clean.

"Wade Winston Wilson," he snarled. "Tell me where the fuck he is."

Weasel's jaw snapped shut. No one ever knew Wade's full name. Who was this kid? He stayed quiet for another long moment.

"Well ain't you a pretty little thing," some guy far too drunk to have thought to listen in basically purred at the kid, reaching to tuck a stray curl behind the boy's ear. 

Weasel was _this close_ to slapping a bitch.

His hand snaps out, catching the man's wrist in a crushing grip. Weasel could hear his bones crunching through his screaming. Weasel cringed back, almost dropping the glass in hand. The kid glared at the man, twisting his arm in a way it should not go.

"Touch me again, and you loose this hand," he says, releasing the offender, who crawls away, rightfully terrified. He looks back at Weasel. "Now, back to business."

Wade was healing up in the office after having his arm and part of his skull crushed and his organs spill all over the concrete.

Weasel was horrified of this kid. He didn't want to tell him, he really didn't, but Jesus Christ.

He managed to keep his mouth shut this time.

"You don't wanna talk? Fine," the kid said, crossing his arms over his chest. "When he comes crawling out of his hole, tell him his boo's here to see him." Then he turned on his heel, shoved through the crowd, and settled into the corner for the long haul.

Okay, what the fuck. Wade was not a father and not a pedophile. What was happening.

The kid sat there, growling viciously at anyone who so dared to even think of looking his way for the next three hours.

When Wade finally bumbled over to the bar, he gave Weasel an odd look.

"Who do you look like you just shit your pants?" He questioned suspiciously. "Thought you got used to this ugly mug."

"Someone asked me to pass on a message," Weasel said slowly, staring at his hands. Wade made a motion for him to go on. "He said your boo's here to see you."

Wade was quiet. Then laughed. "I'm sorry, what? Could you- could you repeat that?"

"Your boo. Is here. To see you."

In all his years of knowing Wade, he had never seen him look so afraid.

" _Oh, no._ "

"Hheeeyyyy Wade!" The kid chirped, making his way back. "We need to talk."

Oh, no.

"Baby boy! Sweetums, honeybunch, babes, Petey-pie," Wade said, taking mesured steps back, "can we not? Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Nice try, it's two A.M. on a Saturday," Pete, presumably, scoffed. "We need to have a little chat. Red's waiting for us outside."

Wade went from afraid to downright petrified in two seconds flat.

"No we don't! No we don't! You and Red can leave, we do not need to talk, let's just send you on home before your aunt gets worried-"

Pete grabbed Wade by his hood and dragged him out of the building, kicking and screaming.

Weasel hoped Pete never came back.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete came back next week.

And he brought a friend.

Weasel was doomed.

Pete's friend loomed omninously behind him, a hand on his arm as a precaution. He glowered at everyone, baseball cap and hood shadowing over his eyes in the dingy light. He led his buddy through the crowd, right over to Weasel, smiling innocently.

"Weasel!" He called, dragging his friend behind him. "Remember me?"

Weasel's hands dropped out of view, landing on the pistol under the counter. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement. Dopinder swept up glass behind him.

"Good. Listen, I'm looking for a guy who knows our guy," Pete says, transfering his friend's hand from his elbow to the edge of the bar. He hopped up to sit on the wood. "You know our guy. Wade."

"What do you want this time?"

"Well, you see, pal," Pete said, "we've been trying to reform him. We don't kill, and some of his methods are rather . . . What was the word you used, Red?"

Red hummed, cocking his head to the side. "Unorthodox."

"Unorthodox, yes. And we have stumbled upon the information that he's back out doing these big dangeous hits," Pete says with a hand to his heart as if the very words hurt his soul. "Without us."

"Listen man, I have work to do," Weasel says miserably. "Tell me what's up and move on."

"Who's his transport guy?" Pete asked, his bubbly attitude disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Weasel shifted to grab the gun. Red jerked forward, a vicious snarl on his lips that startled Weasel back just enough. Pete swung his legs over the bar, catching Weasel's wrist between his crossed ankles, squeezing enough to leave his arm pinned. He leaned over to grab the gun, unloads the chanber, checks the magazine, and removes the bullets one by one.

They all clatter to the ground, throwing silence over the room. Every single person drew their weapon, taking aim on the two strangers.

"Kid," Red grunted, with a jerk of the head towards the nearest guy. "Are we doing this my way or yours?"

"If my way doesn't work, then we can go to yours. Just be careful not to get shot this time," Pete said dismissively. He kicked Weasel back against a shelf, all the bottles and cards rattling together on impact. Pete swung his legs back around, leaning towards Red a little. "There's no need for violence," he announced to the room, "we're just looking for a friend."

"Get out," Charlie, one of the regulars, ordered them.

"Now, who in here could it be," Pete said slowly, squinting at the crowd of killers. He pointed at someone random. "Miss, would you happen to know who Deadpool's driver is? What about you, Sir? Or you?"

Dopinder curled in on himself.

Red leaned up to whisper something to the kid.

"Good idea, Red," he chirped, looking over at Dopinder. "Is it you?"

Dopinder looked over at Weasel. He shook his head. Not worth the risk. Dopinder look back at the pair, terrified, and nodded.

"Come chat with us, okay? No one gets hurt, I swear on my life," Pete assured him.

Dopinder looked at him for permission.

These guys knew Wade well. Apparently worked with him often enough. Not worth the risk to refuse.

Pete hauled him over the side of the bar, put Red's hand back on his arm, and they left. No one fired a shot.

Weasel wished, just a little, that someone had.


	3. Chapter 3

"Wade!"

Jesus Christ. This kid kept coming back like clockwork.

Wade groaned, letting his hed hit the bar.

"Kiddo, you're ruining all my favorite haunts," he complained.

"Good," he said, taking a seat beside Wade. He was quieter than usual, hunkered down quick and leaned his head on Wade's bicep. He looked Tired with a capital T.

Weasel had known this kid for less than twelve hours total, and had seen a range of emotions from pissed, to manipulative, now to just plain depressed, and he was starting to wonder what kind of issues the brat had in the penthouse.

Pete wrapped his arms around one of Wade's, pressing himself into his side. He seemed impossibly small next to Wade's hulking form. Too small. Too pale.

Charlie did a double take, tearing his handgun from it's holster at his hip.

Wade made a horrifying noise between a demonic snarl and a wolfish growl at him.

He backed off.

Dopinder came back around the bar. He looked up. Looked at Wade, looked at the kid. Turned around and left.

Pete didn't say anything for a long time.

"Peter, honey," Wade said gently. "You can't keep coming here. I have a phone."

Pete _r_ , not just Pete. Got it.

"You never answer when I need you to. It's karma coming back."

"You are literally the nicest, most chatter-box-y, most sunshiney child I have ever seen."

Weasel raised a brow. He had never seen anything like that outta the kid. Except maybe a fraction of that chatter-box-y-ness.

"Besides, it's not safe for you here, no matter how strong you are."

"You don't think the Sense goes crazy every time I get withing a ten meter radius of this place? I know that," Peter grumbled, busy trying to duck under Wade's arm and squirm into his lap.

What the fuck was 'the Sense?'

Wade leaned back and lifted an arm. Peter pulled himself into Wade's lap, curling up against his chest. Wade threw a careless arm around the kid like this was normal behavior. He sipped at his beer, long forgotten until then.

"You gotta go home at some point, baby boy."

"May has nightshift. I don't wanna be alone," Peter said into his chest.

"Any reason why?" Wade asked slowly.

Peter made a vague motion towards the ceiling. He pressed his head into his neck. Wade made a noise of understanding, scratching a hand through Peter's curls.

"I've got you covered kiddo. We'll go back to mine tonight."

Peter didn't answer. He was shaking, his eyes screwed shut, clinging to Wade's sweatshirt, not even trying to cover any of that up. He was tired, scared.

Weasel couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the kid.


	4. Chapter 4

The pity was misplaced an shortlived.

Peter didn't even use the door.

He threw a man through the window.

He was quiclly followed by Red, yelling encouragements, and Wade, telling him not to do that. Weasel was a little surprised Wade was the angel on his shoulder in this situation.

"You're paying for my damn window!"

"Later," Red snapped. Peter threw a punch that Weasel was sure broke the guy's jaw from the insuing noises. "Careful, kid, we still gotta get him to talk."

"Red, stop teaching Pete this kinda stuff!" Wade hissed, hitting Red upside the head. "How is this any better than me?"

"The guy lives at the end," they both answered.

"Weas, you should be glad this place is empty."

Wade grabbed Red in a headlock and pulled him back. Red objected by kicking, flailing, and biting, despite knowing that wouldn't work. He screamed at Wade to release him, they were working. Het got a disappointed look for his troubles.

"Say it," Peter hissed, pulling back for another hit.

"Okay, okay! I'll tell you, just- just please stop hurting me!" The guy cried, and listed off what sounded like multiple drug operations.

Okay, what were these people teaching this kid?

"Kiddo, face," Red hissed. It seemed the guy seeing their faces was now an issue? "Face."

"Relax, he's concussed, won't remember this, and he's pretty blind without his stupid hipster glasses," Pete said nonchalantly, punching the guy's lights out so hard his head left a dent in the floor. " . . . No offense."

What the fuck even was this brat.

Wade told them to go regroup on _The Meetup Roof_ , he'd be right there just gonna dispose of the body.

The others nodded, and scrambled out the shattered window with no regard for the pieces threatening to stab them. Pete brushed off Red's jacket, put his friend's are on his elbow, and guided him into the street with a friendly reminder that this probably wasn't the last Weasel would see of them and "Remember Wade, disfigurement, not dismemberment!"

Wade grumbled, heaved the body over his shoulder, and headed through the window and deeper into the alley.

Did . . . Did they do this often?

Weasel was both ultimately confused and rightfully scared to shit.


	5. Chapter 5

The next time Weasel saw Peter, he didn't know it was Peter.

Spider-Man crashed through the newly repaired window.

Weasel yelled at the patrons to get the fuck outta dodge, _right goddamn now_. Thankfully, they listened this time. No one wanted to get messed up in hero business, that was just a bad time for everyone. He ducked down to get the shotgun under the bar.

"Kid!" a familiar voice yelled. Weasel peaked over the counter. Oh. Okay.

That was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, crouched over Spider-Man's maybe-corpse, in his bar.

The enemy the Devil had abandoned to check on his injured friend stood back up, leaning on the windowsill. Weasel stood up, shotgun in hand, and made sure the guy didn't get up again. A friend of his in the alleyway screamed. It was cut off with a gunshot.

"You need to stop doing that," Daredevil growled as Wade climbed through the window.

"Well sorry if his life is more important at the moment," Wade hissed.

"He'll be fine," Daredevil scoffed, sounding unconvinced. He was straddling Spider-Man, pressing down hard on his abdomen where the suit was torn and far more red than it should be. "He'll be fine. Right, kid?"

Spider-Man said nothing. His chest heaved, gasping breaths uneven. The Devil put his knee to where he was holding pressure so he could place his hands on his friend's chest.

"Shit. His chest is uneven." He paused. 

With a sudden realization and a snarl, his head snapped up to glare at Weasel. Was it - was it hot in here or was that just Weasel freaking the fuck out thanks to Satan himself?

"I need a needle," the guy growled in that stone and gravel tone that makes you wanna piss yourself. "Find one! Clean it, dump the purest alcohol you have on it, and give it to me."

Needle? The only kind he knew he had were used for drugs. Not super helpful. Uh. Uh. Uh. What was he supposed to do?

"For the love of - Move that ass, Weas, you're in the way," Wade said, vaulting the bar and shoving him out of the way. 

He opens a compartment that Weasel didn't even know existed, stuffed full of medical supplies. He grabs a pack of needles with caps, tears one from it's siblings and packaging, and throws it to the Devil. Daredevil plunges it into Spider-Man's chest. With the cap discarded, a small hiss filled the tense silence.

Spider-Man drew a deep breath.

Wade and Daredevil both heaved a sigh of relief.

"Would someone tell me what's going on?" Weasel practically screamed.

" . . . Red?" Wade asked, looking over at them.

Oh shit. Red? As in Peter's buddy Red? As in, the horrifying intimidator Peter dragged along when they kidnapped Dopinder? _Red_ was _literal Satan_?

Did that mean Peter was Spider-Man? 

Peter's a kid! He's barely a fetus, not out of highschool, probably doesn't have a job, not even old enough to drive. He was Wade's Baby Boy, his kid, his friend. A friendly. A violent one at times, okay every time Weasel ever saw him, but a friendly. He's just a kid. 

Peter was- is . . .

Dying?

"We need to get him somewhere cleaner, where we can dress our wounds. His blood is clotting, it'll get infected if we wait much longer," Red says in place of an explanation. 

Slowly, he lifts the pressure he's holding, and worms his arms between Peter and the floor. Carefully, he lifts him into a bridal carry, staining his suit even more with his blood. Red looks to him for an answer.

It takes him a minute to remeber how to breathe and think straight.

"The back room," he tells them, showing them to the room.

Red sets Peter down on the empty table in the center. Wade raids the secret cubby for all the medical supplies he can carry and a bottle of booze, carting them into the room. He sets them down beside Peter, and goes to the other side of the table. He takes a breath, pulling Peter's mask off.

It confirms that the horrid, twisting agony in Weasel's gut, was the dread of being right.

Wade pins the kid down by his shoulders.

Why? Why would they need to hold him down? He's unconcious, stiching him up shouldn't wake him. There's no need to hold him down, you're not hurting him. Don't pin him. Peter shouldn't be getting hurt.

Weasel can't get the question past the lump in his throat. He's stuck to the wall, unable to move, unable to look away, unable to do jack shit.

Red opens the booze, sniffs, and upends the bottle on Peter's open wounds. Peter's eyes snap open. His hands snap up to grab at Wade's. His look is feral with pain and raw hurt. Weasel can hear Wade's bones crunching across the room. Wade manages to keep it uneer wraps. Peter doesn't.

Peter _screams_.

He screams bloody murder, high and loud and shrill, a noise that resonate in Weasel's mind and makes everything hurt just by the sound of it. Red winces, cringes at the wordless pleas to _stop, please, it hurts, stop it_ , but holds the bottle steady until it's empty.

Weasel wanted to puke at the sight of it.

A child put so close to death. Covered in red. Bloody and bruised and crying and screaming for it to stop. Blood and alcohol dripping from a table overcrowded with medical supplies.

He thought he was okay with the nausea that came with the job.

Red works quick, shushing Peter methodically and whispering small emcouragements, saying you've been through worse you'll be okay I promised to protect you didn't I? We promised. Wade let him hold onto his arm, pretending he wasn't crushing it, brushing his curls out of his eyes and wiping away tears. He would carefully lift Peter one handed when Red needed to get underneath, gently helping him roll onto his side so Red could sew up a stab wound or through-and-through.

How light was he? Weasel couldn't help but wonder, remembering the kid who came in hidden under all these layers and clothes that hung off his frame. How underfed? 

It took an hour and a half for Peter to pass out, and another forty-seven minutes for Red to finish patching him up. Wade retrieved some of his extra clothes from the locker in the office, stripping Peter of his suit and putting him in clothes far too big instead. Peter looked impossibly small in Wade's giant sweatshirts.

"Weasel, keep your eyes on him," Wade ordered.

Weasel pulled up a chair.

"You next." Wade motioned to Red. Red looked at Weasel. Weasel waved. Wade nodded. Red grumbled.

The Devil had fluffy, brown-orange hair and dark eyes. And a lot of scars, as was discovered upon Red stripping everything waist and up. So, not literal Satan then.

He had a gash on his side, bruises all along his ribs, and got a bullet to the shoulder, and a stab wound straight through the abdomen. He was lucky on that one. Red took almost an hour to get bandaged up, with no struggling and only the occasional hiss or snide comment. He got a pair of sweats and a hoodietwice his size too, along with a pair of sunglasses.

Wade decided he didn't need medical attention. Red decided Wade was a dumbass and tackled him until he complied. Seven bullets were pulled out of him.

There was so much blood.

Weasel had to leave the room.

There was red all over his floors, splattered brains on his wall and bloody footprints and splashes trailing across the place. Hand and bootsprints on the windowsill and bar. Broken glass and bodies.

Peter could have died.

He could have had his guts spill on the floor. His screams rang through Weasel, desperate cries with no words to who knows who to make the pain stop. They didn't have any anesthesia, didn't have painkillers, didn't have good-for-you drugs.

He'd suffered.

He was a kid.

Stuck with this responsibility. A weight on his shoulders that felt like the world. How many deaths had he seen? How many deaths had been his fault? How many deaths could he have stopped? How many had kept him awake at night, how many times had he been too scared to fall asleep, how many times had he been kidnapped, trapped, hurt, had his loved ones hunted? No trauma like that gets better. No trauma like that should be pushed on someone so young - frail - defenceless - breakable! 

No one should start that young.

He'd been that young. That could have been him, could have been anyone, could still be anyone. 

Could still be Peter.

Weasel let the contents of his stomach join the mess.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter came back the next week.

Two AM. Saturday. Siddled up to the bar like always. Holding a tupperware container this time. Didn't look at the window. Acted like nothing was wrong, like last week hadn't even happened. Like it was normal. Not a limp in his step or a hint of pain in his behavior. Wearing another one of Wade's sweatshirts over his clothes and a red beanie that looked suspiciously like the Spider-Man mask.

Just like clockwork.

Weasel didn't say a word.

Peter took a seat at the bar. He set down the container. Weasel crossed his arms over his chest, watching. Peter slid the container across the counter. It had a piece of tape on the side with the initials PP and a smiley face scribbled out in sharpie. They stared at each other. Peter motioned for him to open it. He did.

Cookies.

Peter brought him cookies?

"So," Peter said. "I'm awkward. I'm not all that good at the whole human interraction and making friends. This is thanks for, well . . . " he paused, fidgetting as he tried to find the words. "Not kicking us out, not yelling at us for busting your window twice, and letting us stay the night and waste your medical supplies? Or I guess it was Wade's and he was using here as a stash. Oh, and for not telling anyone about Red and I. Wade told us you're just as safe as Red's cop, that's nice to know."

"Kid. You do remember that night, right?" Weasel asked, just to confirm. Peter nodded. "Then you realize that you could've died."

"I could die every second I'm out there. I know the risks, and I accept the burden either way," Peter answered automatically, like he'd had this exact same conversation a million times. "I'm actually safer now than I ever was before."

"You almost died," he pointed out.

"It happens, move on. I've never been better since I met the others. They're teaching me to defend myself against bigger bads and how to not break my wrist throwing a punch. The streets are cleaner since I've teamed up with Red and DP. I've met more allies and informants than ever before. Red's guy made me my new suit. I've learned the rules of the Underground - "

"The rules of the Underground? The _Underground_? Are they insane? You're like ten!" Weasel objected.

"Okay, first off, it was not their fault, I went behind their backs," Peter defended. "Second, I'm not allowed down there without supervision anymore. Don't tell them that Hawkeye sometimes lets me go with other Hawkeye. And I'm sixteen, not ten. Anyways, it's perfectly fine now."

"Uh-huh," Weasel said, unconvinced.

"Seriously, I am. Why doesn't anyone ever belive me?" Peter muttered. "Listen, not the point here. The point is, I made you cookies. Thanks for not killing me."

"I'm not convinced these aren't poison," he admitted. He wouldn't put it past the kid. He turned out to be a manipulative little shit, he might be lying. Probably not. But still a possibility.

"I'm not sure I can get poisoned so I can't really do the whole 'test first so they eat it' thing they do in the old movies, but I promise I did not poison them," Peter told him. He pushed the cookies closer.

No. He did not trust that baby face.

Peter pouted.

Ugh.

Fine.

Suspiciously, Weasel took a cookie. Peter beamed. This kid was gonna either kill him or get him killed. Whatever.

The cookies were not poison. They were, in fact, homemade and really good.

Peter left without much fuss.

Wade came in later, saw the tupperware container with the initials and the smiley face, and scowled. Wade was jealous, claiming Peter made cookies as thanks and greetings and they were the best damn things in the entire world. Wade stole no less than half the cookies, whining when Weasel wouldn't let him take more. He'd dealt with enough of Wade's sugar crashes, he was fine without another.

Weasel was starting to like Peter.


	7. Chapter 7

Weasel was not expecting to run into Peter at the grocery store.

Literally. He was coming out of an aisle and crashed right into the kid. The loaf of bread and egg carton cradled in one of the kid's arms almost hit the floor, but he managed to grab them and hug them to his chest.

"Sorry, didn't - " Peter looked up, pulling out his earbuds and tucking them into his back pocket while somehow balancing the stuff in his arms. "Oh. Weasel. Hi."

"Shouldn't you be in school?" Weasel questioned.

"Free block last period, I'm with Wade." Peter shrugged. 

"Why?"

"Oh, well, my aunt's out of town for a work thing so I'm staying with Wade for a while until she comes home 'cause I'm a minor an' all. We're actually out to meet Red, and Wade needs food so grocery run," he explained. "By the way, police might get called on us 'cause people think Wade looks weird and obviously that makes him a kidnapper. Anyways, in case that happens, my name is Parker Wilson and Wade is my dad, and we're on the way to pick of the other dad from work."

Wow. They really had this planned out. Had that actually happened before? To be honest, Weasel was only a tiny little smidge surprised. 

The whole family routine would probably be super effective for recon missions; a burn vic, his twig husband (compared to him) and their sunshine child who baked cookies and probably volunteered for the church. Super innocent, super unsuspecting. Great for spying on some poor bastard lowlife.

Damnit, that was a great idea. How it came from a dumbass idiot like Wade, Weasel would never know.

"Baby?" Wade peeked out of the aisle with a basket in the crook of his elbow. "Weas, heeey! What's up?"

Peter dumped his items into Wade's basket and carried on.

"Groceries. What else?" He answered.

"Point. Anywho, sweetums and I are pretty much done here. Care to take a walk with us?" Wade chirped. "We can talk shop on the way to Red's."

Sounds like a plan, buddy.

The woman at their register looked distressed. 

It might have been Wade's hulking mass, or the fact that he and Weasel were having a very vague conversation about jobs over Peter's head, or the fact Wade had an arm slung around Peter, pulling him into his side. Or maybe just that Peter was ignoring them, busy discreetly checking all the tags on the items and doing the math before the machine could under his breath.

It was probably Wade.

The cashier looked at a co-worker for the moment. The co-worker brings a walkie-talkie out from under her station, pressing a button and murmuring into it.

Peter stops mumbling, cocking his head to the side like Daredevil does sometimes. He checks his watch, tapping his index finger to his thumb three times before starting a timer. Wade pulls him a little closer to his side.

Was this actually happening? Were the police actually being called? Weasel couldn't believe Peter was actually right about that heppening. 

The lady gave them their bags and a shaky farewell.

Peter checked his watch. "We're cutting it close, Pops," he said, "Dad gets off in a few minutes."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, baby, we'll get there in time," Wade said, ruffling Peter's curls affectionately.

Weasel assumed that meant they had a handful of minutes before cops, probably less, and they were gonna hightail it ASAP.

Peter put the smaller bags in his backpack, carefully shoving his textbooks back into place. Weasel figured the super-strength from being Spider-Man came in handy more often than not. The three of them went to leave, Wade and Weasle chatting idly while Peter walked ahead a little.

A cruiser pulled into the parking lot, parked, two people got out, walking towards them, one speaking into her walkie-talkie.

"Excuse me, Sirs?" One said politely to them. "May we ask you a few questions?"

Wade paused. Peter hit the timer button and showed him the watch. "Okay," he finally said. "But please be quick, my husband is waiting for us."

The officer looked to his left hand, where he wore no ring, then Peter. His partner asked Peter aside. Peter, acting ever the part of the innocent son, complied with a hint of confusion.

"What's your name, sweetie?" The officer asked gently, just on the edges of Weasel's hearing.

"Parker."

"I'm gonna ask you a few questions, okay?" Peter nodded. "Okay. How long have you been with these men."

"What kinda silly question is that?" He said with a smile. "My entire life! The big guy's my pops, and the other one's my uncle. We're going to pick up dad from work." Nice play, kid.

"Oh? What does your dad do?"

"He's a lawyer," he answered without hesitation. Was that true? Oh my god, was Red a lawyer? Lawyer by day, violent vigilante bastard by night. 

"Okay, sweetheart. Hey, can you promise me something, Parker?" The sweet officer asked kindly. Peter nodded. She lowered her voice, Weasel had to strain to hear it. "Can you promise me you're not lying? That these men aren't making you say any of this, this is all the truth, right?"

Peter gave her a bewildered look. "Of course it's all the truth. Why would I lie about my family?"

"No reason, sweetheart. I think we're done here. Have a nice day, okay?" She said with a smile, signalling to her partner that they were done here. Weasel had just ignored all of the guy's questions, much to his annoyance.

The other two dragged Weasel away as fast as they could without being suspicious, and far into Hell's Kitchen they went.

Red was a lawyer. A lawyer named Matthew. A blind lawyer named Matthew. He could be faking it. Was he faking it? It was a great cover story. Weasel wouldn't put it past any of them to do something like that.

Was he really sure any of today had actually happened? Or was this some trippy shit? Had he been doing drugs recently, he couldn't remember. Did he halluvinate running into a kid and being dragged into faking a family story so they wouldn't be arrested for pedophilia and then found out Red was blind lawyer named Matthew?

He was pretty sure he hallucinated the last part.


	8. Chapter 8

"What d'you got?" Weasel asked when he picked up the phone, the device jammed between his ear and shoulder as he washed dishes.

"Favor for a favor," said Wade on the other end. "You in?"

"Favors from you are gold, man." He grabbed a towel from the rack. "I'm in."

"Good. I need you to deliver something to Red and tell Spidey we gotta move Beatdown Day back a notch."

Beatdown Day? Weasel should turn in that favor to get a Q&A.

"What and where?"

"You know that box I shoved in your window and told you not to touch lest death and destruction rain from the sky? That," Wade said. "You'll find him outside Peter's school."

Weasel dropped the plate in his hand. It shattered right next to his foot. He cursed very loudly and _very_ colorfully, stumbling back and throwing his hands up so he didm't break anything else. His phone clattered to the ground.

"Weas? Y'alright there, buddy?" Wade asked, not sounding at all concerned.

Weasel grabbed his phone and backed the hell out of the kitchen. He'd deal with that later.

"I'm sorry, you want me," he said slowly, "skittish owner of a shady bar in the worst part of the angriest city for the scum of the underworld, to go show up at a high school to find a literal fetus and the most intimidating man in the universe."

"Yep, that about sums it up. Sorry to push this on ya bud," he did not sound sorry. "But I'm in Rome and you already agreed. Love you tons, sweetcheeks, toodles!"

"Don't you - "

Wade had already hung up. A second later, he was texted an address.

He was stuck doing this now, wasn't he. Well, he at least had to get rid of the death box. He eyed it from across the room. Whatever was in that box had been the bane of his existence for the past week and a half.

He grabbed a jacket and stuffed the damn thing in his bag.

Might as well get this over with.

The school was in a very populated area, with a giant field beside it and a station down the road, with a great big square of cement in front with a set of stairs leading down to the street. It was called Midtown Science and Technology. It was a prestigious nerd school, with a great AcaDec record. 

Red wearing a neat little suit and pretty red shades and holding a white stick was only a fraction less terrifying than usual.

He noticed Weasel immediately, snapping his head in his direction with a snarl. Weasel may have pissed his pants a little. "What are you doing here?" Red hissed viciously.

"This is from Wade." He dug the dreaded box out of his bag, and handed it off to Red. 

Red looked confused. He stuck it close to his face to smell it, dragged his fingers across every edge and seam, and shook it right beside his ear. Then he seemed to realize what it was. He stared right at Weasel, and quietly tucked it away in his own bag. "Tell no one that you gave this to me, especially the kid," he said.

Oh-kay then.

The bell rang. Red flinched. Children of all shapes, sizes, and annoyance levels flooded the sidewalk. Joy. Weasel couldn't see Peter's short person past all the other little jackasses.

When he finally did come into view, he was flanked on either side by a shorter boy and a taller girl. He noticed Red first, dismissing something his friends had said to jog over.

"Sensei!" Peter called, and suddenly had Red's undivided attention. He answered with a tiny nod. Peter blinked, looking towards Weasel. "Weasel, hi. I didn't think you'd ever come this far out of your zone during the day."

"Wade's in Rome and traded me a favor," Weasel explained shortly. Peter nodded wisely in understanding. "He told me to pass on a message. Said you gotta move Beatdown Day back a notch."

"For the last time, that's not what it's called," Red muttered in frustration.

"Oh. Okay." Peter sounded a little disappointed. He brightened, looking up from his shallow pit of gloom. "Hey! You should come this week!"

"To something called _Beatdown Day_? Thanks but no thanks."

"That's not what it's called!" Red growled. Weasel put his hands up in a gesture of peace. He took a breath when Peter pulled at his sleeve. "It's just a training day. We take the time to set up a random day where we do training instead of a group patrol."

"Oh." He pauses. "So you prep a time and place to go beat each other up."

"You what?" the boy that was with Peter hissed quietly. "Awesome!"

"Are you deaf?" the girl asked blankly.

"Weasel, this is my boyfriend Ned and our person MJ, but you're only allowed to call her Michelle," Peter introduced. "Ned, MJ, this is one of Wade's people, Weasel."

Ned waved enthusiastically. Michelle looked him over, then nodded. He didn't know if that was an Approving nod, a You're-Good-For-Now nod, or an I'll-Kill-You-If-You-Hurt-Him nod. He decided he liked Ned much better than Michelle already.

"Anyway, I'm giving you a standing invitation to watch us hurl each other across the room," Peter said with a grin.

Red glared him down from over Peter's shoulder.

" . . . Thanks?"

Peter took Red's hand, gently uncurling his fist and tucking his hand into the crook of his elbow. With a cheery goodbye and a wave, he led the vicious violent vigilante away, beckoning his friends to follow. Ned took his other hand and they chartered on about Star Wars, while Michelle drifted at Red's other side. Red glared over his shoulder to make an 'I'm watching you' gesture.

Weasel kind of wanted to take the Spider-Kid up on his offer just to see whoever showed up beat the shit out of Red.


	9. Chapter 9

**3 new messages from Wade Wilson**  
_11PM fogwell's gym 2nite_  
_Beatdown Day_  
_heard baby boy gave you the invite [heart emoji]_

Fogwell's was a rundown little place in Hell's Kitchen that the people refused to let go of. It was basically a monument of the community. The lights in the windows up top were on, so Weasel took that to mean that the Beatdown Day meeting had already started. The door was unlocked, and Weasel found his way up to the room the others were in.

He opened the door, just in time to watch Wade go hurtling into a wall.

Red praised Peter, who was cheering at his victory. Peter had just chucked Wade across the room like he weighed nothing, which couldn't be further from the truth, that man was a hunk of muscle and scars and nothing else.

A woman on the sidelines sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose hard. The woman beside her, dressed in black and red, cooed at Peter.

"You made it! Help me up, baby boy likes goin' around breaking my bones," Wade hummed, waving a hand at Weasel. He dragged him to his feet. 

The women looked over at them. "Hello," the distressed one said. "I'm assuming the immortal dumbass is yours?"

"Yep. Go get your ass kicked, buddy." Wade perked right up at the prospect of violence, and dove right back in the strangle Red into a chokehold. "I'm Weasel. The kid invited me."

"Claire. I'm the nurse that runs the little clinic for enhanced idiots," Claire said. She motioned to the woman beside her, pracrically vibrating as she watched the fight. "This is Elektra, she's . . . Uh. It's complicated, I think."

"I'm dear Matthew's sister. It's a pleasure to meet you," Elektra cut in at Claire's lack of explanation.

Weasel raised a brow. "His name's actually Matthew?" He asked slowly. Holy shit, he wasn't lying, that man really was a squishy blind lawyer named Matthew. "They just call him Red all the time."

"I thought Castle was the only one who called him that," Claired hummed.

Because of course they all knew Frank Castle. Why wouldn't they.

Back on the mat laid out in place of the boxing ring he knew was supposed to be there, Wade had pinned Red under his thighs, wrangled Peter into his lap to restrict his arms, and had declared himself victor. Peter grabbed his hands and crushed his fingers until he let go, then threw himself bodily forward, sending Wade sprawling. Red lept to his feet and sprung at Wade, continuing to beat the shit outta him. Elektra and the kid egged him on.

Peter and Red's sister - sister??? - were a bad influence. Duly noted.

Then a hulking mass biger than Wade came through the door, followed by a golden retriever puppy in human form.

"Hey guys! The girls said they couldn't make it this time - ooh are Matt and Wilson at it again?" The puppy personified exclaimed, loud and shaking with energy, going over to Peter to chatter excitedly about what sounded like a drug operation? God, these people were weird.

Elektra squealed, and raced across the room to start pulling some crazy ninja moves on the big guy. Matt escaped Wade to go join her. They both seemed ecstatic to have someone new to attack. The guy crossed his arms over his chest and waited it out, utterly unaffected.

Weasel looked to Claire.

"Golden boy is Danny, big guy is Luke," she explained.

"Weasel!" Peter called, slipping past all the fights. Danny and Wade started talking literal gibberish behind him for whatever reason. "I didn't think you'd come."

"You think I'd pass up watching full grown men get their asses handed to them on a silver platter by a scrawny kid?" Weasel scoffed, messing up Peter's curls. "Never."

Peter kicked all their asses that night. Well, except Luke, but it turns out he's invincible, so Weasel's calling cheats.

As it turned out, Beatdown Day started by teaching Peter how not to break his wrist when punching someone in the face, and devolved in Vigilante Fight Club. Peter said his invitation to watch still stood, and if he needed to punch someone fell free to take a hit, never any hard feelings with Beatdown Day.

Yeah, Weasel might just come back.


	10. Chapter 10

**_6 new messages from Unknown Number_**  
_heyyyyy weasel_  
_wade gave me ur number_  
_we need help on a raid everyones calling in their teams thought i should invite you_  
_1130PM tommorrow nite rooftop_  
_its peter btw :D_

Kid. It's three in the fucking morning on his day off. Ugh. He was probably gonna get dragged into this either way.

The last message was a link to an address on Google Maps. It wasn't in Queens. Way out of the Kitchen. Not even by Harlem, where Wade'd said Red took Peter for training some days. What did they have in Brooklyn? That was way out of their territories.

This should be interesting. 

Weasel saves Peter's number under Spider Baby, throws his phone across the room and goes back to sleep.

He was still wondering why he was called to Brooklyn when he got off the subway at 11 20, duffle full of guns over his shoulder. He spent the next fifteen minutes utterly lost, before finally managing to find the building only to spend the next ten trying to get up to the roof. Wow. Had it been that hard to do before he'd become a bartender?

He did not expect what he found on top of the building.

Peter. Wade. Red. Okay, that's normal. Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, and Danny Rand? He knew the Defenders were a thing, he'd met them, or at least most of them, in person before. Hawkeye and the goddamn Punisher perched on the edge of the building with snipers? What the fuck. He could deal with it, but what the fuck.

"Weas, hi!" Wade called. "Hold on a sec, buddy." He rummaged through his belt pouches, then tossed a small, white earpiece to Weasel. "That's your comm."

Huh. Fancy.

"Sorry we're late!" A distinctly familiar voice came from over the edge of the building, and up came a man with a metal arm he recognized as the Winter Soldier and Captain _fucking_ America.

Holy shit.

What had he gotten into.

"Okay, no one told me this was some superhero shit," Weasel snarled, pointing accusitorily at his three idiots. "Y'all know I don't do superhero shit, Wade especially!"

"Welcome to the team, Weas," Wade chirped.

"I ain't up to that shit!" Weasel yelled at him, waving an arm at Steve fricking Rogers.

"For tonight, you are," Peter said. "No going back."

Oh god, what did he let himself get dragged into.

"Come over here, Weasel, we have a team to introduce and battle plans to discuss."

Fine. Fine. He's in it now, might as well follow through. Kid'll be the death of him, he swears.

"Gather around, children," Wade crooned, clapping his hands together. "Time to introduce ourselves to the class!"

Peter sighed, shaking his head. Red scrubbed a hand over his face and punched Wade in the ribs. Wade pouted.

"Everyone, this is Weasel. He's Wade's person, he runs a merc bar. Weasel," Peter said. "This is Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, Ms. Jones, Mr. Cage, Mr. Rand, Agent Barton, and Mr. Castle."

Neither sniper looked up. Barnes squinted at him, all judgment and doubts. He motions to Weasel with a jerk of his chin.

"Don't look so tough," he grunts. "What've you got?"

"Well I don't run a bar for the scum of the Earth without knowing what it feels like to be them," Weasel says with a shrug despite the fact he has a distinct feeling everyone on this roof could and would kill him at the drop of a hat - except Peter and Red with their No Kill rules. "And I didn't get to be Deadpool's weapon person without knowing how to point and shoot."

"That's my boy!" Wade jeers. Barnes raises a brow.

"Sergeant, now is not the time for skepticism. We have a job to do," Red said in that gravelly tone that made Weasel want to piss his pants.

"Sorry, uh, Weasel," Rogers said. "Bucky is suspicious of everyone and everything."

"Babes," Barton called over his shoulder, staring down the scope of his rifle.

"Hm?" Red turned on his heel, wandering over to Barton without a second thought. "What?"

Hold up, babes? Like pet names, like between people who are together? As in, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and Hawkeye from the Avengers were together? Barton raised a hand to motion Red down to his level. Weasel caught a glint of gold on his ring finger.

They were _married_?

Red dropped into a crouch beside Barton, closer than he'd seen Red get with anyone outside a fight or sparring match. Barton said something too low for Weasel to hear. Red quirked a smile and replied quickly, bringing his hands up to form what Weasel recognizes as a few ASL signs. 

"Frank," Red snapped. Castle hummed. "Swing over here."

Castle swung his rifle over, settling the bipod down on the lip of the building beside Barton. He paused. "Got it," he said.

"Weasel, set up your gear, you're cover fire," Red told him. 

Sure thing, scary, he'll get right on it. Weasel drops his duffle, and gets to work.

"We getting on with it?" Jones asked, taking a swig from a flask she'd gotten from who-knows-where.

"Yeah." Cage nodded.

"Captain Rogers? Your operation, your rules," Peter announced.

Rogers stepped up, shifting from shy and sheepish to an experienced soldier in no time at all. "Listen up, everyone," he said in a voice that meant business. "We've been tracking this ring for months, and it's only grown bigger since. They deal in whatever they can get their hands on. People, drugs, money, weapons, anything. We take this one floor at a time, top down, lead as many as you can down to the ground and out for our men up top to pick off.

"Spider-Man will get on ground level and close off the exits with Cage and Jones. Then Clint will give us a clear line across. I'll go in first, Bucky will follow. After that, Deadpool will settle on the ground. Daredevil, Rand, you'll start up top with us and clear a path to the ground as quickly as you can. If anyone finds civilians in there, your primary mission shifts to getting them the hell out of here. Snipers, cover fire and aerial support. If you see a shot, you take it. No kills, no exceptions. Everyone ready?"

Weasel settled against the lip of the building, staring down the barrel of his rifle. Clear windows, lotta baddies jammed in one place. Lot of clear space around the building. He lets out a breath.

Ready as he'll ever be.

"Then let's go."


	11. Chapter 11

So, last week went better than expected. Weasel never wanted to do that again. Meeting all those heroes was pretty cool though.

Middle of the night Sunday, Jessica Jones stormed the bar, Clint Barton trailing after her. He was anxiously twisting his wedding ring, staring down at it more than he looked where he was going. Jones looked pissed as hell.

"You," she growled, shoving past patrons to slam a hand down on the bar. It creaked dangerously. "You know the kid."

The kid? As in Peter?

Weasel doesn't look them in the eye, busying himself with cleaning a shot glass.

"Yeah. So?"

"So you have his number. You call him, get him over here, right now."

He set down the glass a little more forcefully than necessary. "And I would do that why, exactly?" he asked in a tone that held far more confidence than his entire being did. Jones stared him down with a growl.

"Red's gone missing," Barton blurted out. He started waving his hands around. "I mean, that's not super weird or anythin', five days is a perfectly fine time to disappear for, but Chief came home to Bed-Stuy alone an' Chief follows Red everywhere, an' he had a note from the kid on his collar."

Jones slid the note across the bar.

_I think this big guy belongs to you :D_   
_\- Spidey_

"Let me get this straight," Weasel said, pinching the bridge od his nose. "The kid was the last to see Red, and you don't call him yourselves because?"

"Tried. Not picking up."

"And you think my chances are any better _because_?"

"Look, asshole, just call the kid, got it?"

Yes, ma'am, he'll do that right now.

"Hnn?" Peter grunted, groggy, after a few rings. Oh, he'd just woken the poor kid up. "Weasel? Wha's up?"

"Hey buddy," Weasel said softly. "Sorry for waking ya. Listen, I'm looking for Red, you know where he is?"

"Rrreeeed?" Peter asked, rolling the word out like he'd never said it before. "Eh. Saw him few days ago. DP was looking for him too. Said so and fucked off right over the edge o' the building."

"Thanks, kiddo. Get some sleep, yeah?" Peter mumbled something. Weasel hung up, looking back to the two vigilantes. "You're looking for Wade. Chances are he's on a job, but if you wanna go knocking his apartment's on the Upper West Side."

They left without a thank you, though Barton at least had the decency to wave.

Christ, when the hell did he become an ambulance chaser for vigilantes?


	12. Chapter 12

As far as Weasel was concerned, Peter was Wade and Red's kid and that was it. They were a family. A messy, disfunctional, weird as hell family, but a family nonetheless. 

Hell, if he hadn't known Wade for as long as he did he'd be none the wiser. 

Wade was listed as his alternate guardian. Peter bunked at their apartments when he was in their part of town. He automatically adjusted to guiding Red when they walked together. He tucked himself up against Wade's side to make room for others on the subway. Understood everything they said no matter how weird it sounded.

He was their kid.

"Hey Peter," Weasel asked on a chilly four A.M. Saturday morning, "how did you even meet Wade?"

"I shoved him off a building," Peter muttered, scratching another formula onto his math work.

Excuse me. Small child. You did what?

"Yeah, I spent ten minutes forgetting he was Deadpool and freakin' out 'bout it," the kid shrugged. "Then he called me a spitfire, said I reminded me of someone, and kidnapped me. Carried me all the way across the city to Hell's Kitchen just to shove me in Red's face. Didn't sleep for a week."

Yeah, that was reasonable. Weasel wouldn't either, if he was Spidey.

"Then Red kicked his ass, told me to go home, kicked my ass, threw Wade in the river, apologized for kicking my ass, and walked me home."

Hm. Well. Did he really expect much else.

"I panicked and did it all over again the next time I saw him."

"Peter, dearest!" Wade called from across the room with pure glee. "We have a job to do!"

"Coming," Peter yelled back. He shoved his papers into his backpack. "Hey, Weasel?"

"What?"

"Can you teach me how to mix drinks?"

Weird request for a kid like you but okay. "Sure, I guess."

"Petey-pie!"

"Coming! Bye Weasel," Peter said with a little wave, disappearing into the crowd of killers.

"Bye, buddy."

Peter came by two weeks later with a deep bruise all along his jaw. It'd been inflicted by a crowbar, apparently. He was all jittery and excited to learn how to mix drinks.

He was unfairly good at it. Dopinder wanted to know all his secrets.


End file.
